


Red Dogs Running

by CommanderRoastedWolf



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 21:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11044515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderRoastedWolf/pseuds/CommanderRoastedWolf
Summary: Having escaped the mines on Dogg-17 thanks to her military mother, Fareeha Amari makes a living as a talented tattoo artist in the rundown central city of Krah. With civil unrest brewing amongst the discontented Mutts of Dogg-17, Fareeha has to make a choice between freedom and family, not to mention ensure the off-worlder doctor isn't getting into trouble with the galaxy police.





	1. Chapter 1

“Careful, Fareeha, elsewise you’ll be on your ass all evening.”

Fareeha smirks, eyes fixed on the insect set on her hand, the shot glass of Vision rising steadily towards her mouth. The crowd around her is personified by a steady rumble of encouragement, flinching as one as the creature on her hand twitches its tail, daggerlike stinger tensing as though to strike. She goes still, eyes narrowing, eyeing the throbbing abdomen until it settles.

_Nice and easy._

She moves with practiced efficiency. Swallowing the acidic burn of the Vision, she has several moments before it sweeps her into a potent hallucination. In the narrow gap between reality and hazy virtuality, she flicks the insect off her hand and traps it under her empty glass, swelling with victory as the Vision does its job. This time, she sees a yawning sea of sand, speeding across it as she soars high into a purple sky.

She returns to the world when a heavy hand claps her on the shoulder. The roar of her companions makes her grin, and she raises her fists in victory, displaying the lack of a sting, and proof that she will live another night. The bar erupts in cheers, shouts of her name echoing high into the dusty rafters until she waves them away and gets unsteadily to her feet.

“Gotta get back,” she says to no one in particular, but the people around her chant their dismay. “I’ll be back round tomorrow!”

They let her go, after that. She staggers out of the bar and into the dark street, mind spinning out dazedly, even as she hunches her shoulders against the cold and starts down the pavement. In the dwindling hours of the night, the city of Krah is quiet but for the odd shouts and music spilling out of the nightclubs and bars she passes. The night sky is clear, ten thousand stars glimmering down at her as she walks down street after street. She casts them a lazy glance, spotting the tell-tale vapour trail of a shuttle headed off-world.

_Lucky for some._

She grunts a laugh and shoves her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket, crossing an empty street and winding her way into an alley. The scent of the city becomes heavy in the grimdark, a bitter taste at the back of her tongue, the bioluminescence of the streetlamps finding no path as she finds her way into the rat run of backstreets that make up Krah’s underworld. The huddled paths and tight alleys are an easy, but dangerous, escape from the constant glare of the cameras which line the main streets. The oppressive presence of the United Confederation – or UCon – is felt even here, in the far flung reaches of the outer-rim planet of Dogg-17, Fareeha’s home.

Heaving a sigh, she pushes herself down another narrow corridor, but pauses when she hears voices, raised in either anger or panic, coming from a nearby stairwell which leads into the tunnels below. She hesitates, ears pricked, her head clearing as the cold night air pierces her lungs.

“Stop fucking around, bitch.”

The echo of a slap, and the thick sound of flesh against brick tempts Fareeha into action. She starts towards the stairs, fingers coiling around the heavy pistol shoved into the back of her jeans. The heavy metal warms at her touch, plasma humming as she draws the weapon and holds it loosely at her side, squinting through the dark.

She sees several people down below, huddled around a figure slumped against the wall. One of them bends down, pushing the figure hard against brick, snarling incoherently. There is a moan of pain, the scuffing of shoes against pavement, and a savage blow against the side of a head.

“Hey.” Fareeha calls. The group all look up at her, faces pale in the dark. Their eyes dart to the pistol at her side as one. They straighten, the tallest of them stepping up towards her, smirking.

“Run along, mutt,” he says, using a derogatory term for a local. He hardly turns his head to spit a globule of phlegm at her feet. _So, he’s military, then. Definitely off-world._ “This is not your business.”

“I think it is, spacer,” Fareeha replies icily, shifting her shoulders. Her boot lands on the step below as she advances, shifting her grip on her weapon, “this is my planet and you’re in _my_ city.”

His gang behind him jeer, their eyes shining in the red light thrown from the flickering bio-lamps above and the huddled figure at the wall curls tighter in on themselves, arms thrown over their head as though expecting a blow. Fareeha clenches her teeth, breathing slowly through the rising fury in her gut. _Don’t react. Don’t-_

“You should leave now, mutt,” he says, swaggering up towards her. “Or better yet, maybe I should show you how civilised folk teach lessons. Is it true you all fuck each other like dogs?”

She doesn’t hesitate. His nose is broken before he can dodge her fist. It shatters against her knuckles, and then she is upon him, forgoing the gun for a swift and decisive kick between the legs. He buckles with a howl of pain, and she shoves him down the stairs, sending him careering into the rest of his friends. They scramble out of the way, and scatter when she aims her pistol towards the sky and fires off a warning shot. She roars something at them, something forgettable and threatening, and they pick their leader off the ground and scarper like the rats they are. Shoving the pistol back into the waistband of her jeans, she continues down the steps to their victim.

It is a woman, she is surprised to find. Blonde hair flutters out of an explosive ponytail, blood dripping down a pale face. _Another off-worlder._ After a moment, the woman looks up at her, squinting through what looks to be a vicious black eye.

“Have they gone?” The woman’s accent is thick, made thicker by her broken nose. Fareeha nods, crouching down. The woman sighs in what might be relief, wiping blood off her face and spitting more out. “Thank God. They followed me from the hospital. Thank you so much. I can usually fend for myself but they took me by surprise and dragged me in here! I thought I– well. Thank you for intervening.”

Fareeha shakes her head. “It’s fine. We should probably get you somewhere safe. Do you live near here?”

The woman shakes her head but stops quickly, moaning softly. “I live ages away from here… I was waiting for the bus…”

Snorting with mirth, Fareeha reaches down and draws out her mini torch, flicking it on to get a better look at the stranger. “You’re new to Krah then? No busses after curfew.”

The woman curses in a language that sounds like she needs to cough, but lifts her head for inspection. She looks badly bruised, a narrow cut weeping down the right side of her face, the left side puffy and sore.

“My name is Angela, by the way.” She says softly, her lips forming around the hard ‘g’ and the long ‘e’ in a way that is strange to Fareeha. She hasn’t heard this name before. “I work at the hospital.”

“Good for you,” Fareeha replies shortly, tuning off the torch and tucking it into a pocket. “I’m Fareeha. We should get you out of the back alleys. It’s not safe for off-worlders like yourself.”

She gets to her feet. Angela copies her, sliding her back up the wall and half standing, half leaning, spitting more blood out onto the steps below. Eventually, though, she steadies herself, straightening and looking around. Fareeha starts back up the stairs, glancing behind to check Angela is following. Seeing that she is, Fareeha leads the way into the dark, taking several turns until she comes to the main road, waiting in the shadows for Angela to catch up.

“Here.” Fareeha says, gesturing out towards the road empty road. “Just wait here for a taxi.”

Angela looks unsure. She hunches her narrow shoulders under her shirt; Fareeha’s eyes catch the torn knee of her jeans and the bloodied skin beneath. The orange bio-lamp flickers above them, throwing them momentarily into a darkness highlighted only by the two moons which sail across the city. Fareeha sighs softly, rubbing one eye to stay the headache which is creeping up on her. _I know what I have to do. I really don’t want to._

Finally, Fareeha relents. “Alright. I’ll bring you to mine. You can leave in the morning.”

The relief on Angela’s face is palpable. Trying hard, and failing, not to feel sorry for the stranger, Fareeha strides back into the alleys, taking hold of Angela’s wrist and leading her back into the warren. They walk together quickly, ducking down one street, then another, until Fareeha finally slows to a stop, smiling grimly at the gravbike shoved against the wall. Shaped like some archaic motorcycle, it glitters blackly in the half light, the dormant gravity plates two arches of metal in place of wheels.

Fareeha swings herself onto it without hesitation, looking back at Angela, feeling rather than hearing the gravbike’s hum as it reacts to her presence. It hovers idly off the ground, gravplates lighting up. Angela looks unsure again, until she pats the back seat.

“Are you sure that’s safe?” Angela blurts. Fareeha frowns, patting her bike as though to soothe it.

“Perfectly safe. Just get on. Raptora doesn’t like to wait.”

The bike sinks slightly as Angela clambers on, her hands finding purchase nervously around Fareeha’s waist. Fareeha eases her bike off its stand, enjoying the way it settles in mid-air, the gravplates humming softly with power as she eases it out of the alley and onto the street. She glances around quickly, pleased to note that there are no other cars on the road, before she revs the engine. Angela clutches tighter to her.

_Maybe she’s never been on a bike before._

It’s a curious thought, but she dismisses it, and urges the bike out into the night, the engine roaring. It is as close as she’ll ever come to flying. She soars onwards through the silent city, the biting rush of wind driving the last traces of V out of her mind, stinging her cheeks and whipping the lapels of her jacket beside her. Angela’s grip on her becomes vice-like, surprisingly strong fingers digging into her.

They traverse the districts swiftly, heading towards the teetering apartment blocks on the edge of the city. Dust from the mines draws close about them; Fareeha speeds up, trying not to breathe too deeply as they pass through the red cloud, narrowing her eyes against it. She thinks she feels Angela coughing, and briefly considers stopping to give her the scarf in the seat, but the night is too cold and Fareeha is too tired to stop.

She knows the city well enough. Orange light from above blurs as she roars into a tunnel, the bike’s engine screaming before they belt out into the open again. It is a mass of huge streets and tunnelled alleys, a riddle of extremes, holding both the grossly rich and the objectively poor, close and rubbing shoulders in a toxic proximity which has rumours of discontent rumbling through every home. Fareeha, fiercely proud of Dogg-17 and its city, says nothing and lies in wait. Her father would have wanted that.

The apartment rears up before them as Fareeha slows. Angela peels herself off of Fareeha’s back, her breathing laboured through her still bloody nose. Humming, Fareeha parks the bike down a narrow street, heaving it onto its stand and allowing the gravplates to fade and die. Flicking on the alarm, she strides out into the open, hearing Angela’s staggered footsteps behind her.

“I– you–”

“This is where I live.” Fareeha replies. She glances up at the block. It’s not fancy, but it’s not like some of the places in the city. Leaning slightly to one side, only a dozen lights are still on, revealing the dim rooms beyond the grimy windows. Fareeha kicks open the nearby door, and glances back at Angela. She looks unsure, and nervous again, as though fully appreciating for the first time her situation.

Fareeha sighs, brushing her fingers through the short hair at the back of her head. Her eyes are itching with tiredness, but still, she turns fully to the other woman.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” She says firmly.

Tentatively, Angela steps into the corridor and Fareeha shuts the night out behind her, stomping into the grey hall, lit dimly from a flickering light above. It smells like mould. Stale, tired, and dirty, Fareeha tries to ignore the cigarette butts piled in one corner as she strides to the lift, hammering the broken button until the doors open. Angela maintains eye contact with the floor as she steps into the heavily graffitied lift, her shoulders drawing narrow around her ears as though she is trying to make herself as small as possible. Fareeha leans against the wall, rubbing her eyes as the doors close and they begin to rise.

The silence is only broken by the rattling gears.

 _I’m not going to apologise._ She thinks to herself, glancing over at Angela’s subdued expression as blue eyes linger on the crudely drawn dick on the nearby mirror. _She’s just some off-worlder. It’s not my problem if my home isn’t up to her standards._

It isn’t as though she chose to live here in the first place.

“How are you feeling?” Fareeha asks, if only to starve the awkward silence.

Angela looks at her, then clears her throat, speaking in a hoarse voice. “Shitty.”

Despite herself, Fareeha laughs. Angela blinks, then offers her the tiniest of grins. Her teeth are very white, stark against the blood still staining her face. Fareeha draws a tissue out of her pocket and holds it out to Angela, who takes it.

“Thank you.”

“You look about as shitty as I feel.”

Angela dabs at her bloody nose. “Well, I thank you anyway. You’re very kind to allow me into your uh… lovely home.”

Fareeha grimaces, but before she can respond, the doors open onto her corridor. They step out together. Fareeha tries to ignore the growing ache behind her eyes, leading the way. Her apartment is number twelve and she presses her thumb to the sensor. It bleeps, and the door opens, and she steps in as the lights grow.

“Make yourself at home,” Fareeha says softly as the door locks itself. “I’ll put on some tea.” 


	2. Chapter 2

She awakes to the dull sound of an explosion.

The darkness presses in on her as she sits bolt upright in bed, her hand going immediately to the gun shoved down the side of her mattress, fingers closing around the cold metal grip, which warms in her hand at once. She swings herself out of bed, grabbing a pair of boxers and hauling them up her legs one handed, squinting out of the grimy window into the sprawling city below.

Smoke is belching into the sky. The red blush of fire licks the fraught half-light of early morning, the wail of sirens pealing out over the dawn chorus calling the faithful to prayer.

Feeling distinctly ill at ease, she shoves the gun down the back of her boxers, grabbing a sleeveless shirt and pulling it over her head as she steps out of her minuscule bedroom and into the living area.

It is dark and quiet. She flicks on the lights with a wave of her hand.

Her apartment is empty. There is no trace of the woman she rescued in the backstreets the night before, except for what looks to be a scrap of material with something scrawled on it sitting on the counter. Fareeha pads to it, squinting down at the writing before realising she can’t read it. It isn’t in the bastardised Arabic written on Krah, and besides that, it tells her everything she needs to know about the strange off-worlder. If she can write physically with a pen, she has no business on Krah.

Tossing the material aside carelessly, Fareeha dusts some instacoffee into the maker and watches it do its thing, rubbing her face to try and wake herself up. Still hazy with the aftermath of sleep, she glances at the clock, reading the time. 06:17. She has work in an hour, and somehow she knows traffic is going to be a nightmare. _If there’s been an attack, GPol will lock down that area of the city._ Glancing once more out the window, she watches as coiling claws of smoke reel into the sky. So the Resistance has targeted the market district, where people come to trade their wares. Luckily, it is far from where Fareeha works.

Her coffee ready, Fareeha pours it into her mug and gulps it down quickly, nearly scalding her tongue on the thick black liquid. It is cheap, but high in caffeine, waking her up finally before she trots to the shower, finding some solace under the lukewarm water, only just managing to finish washing her hair before it goes cold. She stays there, cleaning her teeth so as not to use more water, staring blindly at the wall as the minty fresh taste of her toothpaste chases away the taste of coffee.

She wonders where the woman went. _She called herself Angela. She said she worked at the hospital. A doctor then?_ Doctors on Dogg-17 are hard to come by, particularly in mutt segments of the city; wherever she is, Fareeha wishes her luck.

She shuts the water off, being sure to tighten the tap as much as she can to prevent leaks before towelling herself dry and getting ready for the day.

It isn’t long before she finds herself in the rattling elevator down. Dressed, hair still damp from the shower, she muffles a yawn into the back of her hand as the lift opens on the ground floor. Stepping out, she ignores the man slumped in the corner and strides swiftly out into the growing day. Even now, before the sun has fully risen, it is hot. Her shirt sticks to the small of her back under her jacket as she finds her gravbike and swings open the seat, pulling out her scarf and goggles, wrapping the red material around her nose and mouth and snapping the goggles into place. Satisfied, she climbs into the saddle, awakening the bike and finding something comforting in the way it purrs beneath her.

She drives out into the city. The traffic is as bad as she thought, clogging up street after street, gravcars hooting their displeasure, the hulking bulks of liondogs dragging rickety carts full of food and clothes and passengers, riders calling for space. Fareeha weaves through them all with the easy grace of a falcon, ignoring heckled yells called after her when she cuts off a liondog, staring for a fraction of a second into its wolfish face and enormous mane before darting forward into a free space. The city itself smells like its own beast. She can feel its stink tickling her throat through her scarf, mingling with the heavy scents of old oil, petrol and people, all mixed together to concoct the heady taste of poverty. Despite this, Fareeha feels a savage sort of pride for her people. Dogg-17 is a shithole, but it's _her_ shithole. _Her_ city. She had been born and bred amongst the leaning towers and barren, dusty streets, growing up in the sand bowl of a desert beyond Krah’s boarders. Mutts like her aren't like Spacer folk, or off-worlders. Mutts are strong. Brave. Unbreakable and unyielding.

She pushes her bike through a narrow gap between gravcars, turning sharply down a shortcut and racing beneath a ramshackle bridge composed of shipping crates and corrugated iron. She briefly hears a bray of laughter before it is whipped away on the hot wind, disappearing behind her as she slides out onto another street.

GPol presence is heavy here. She eyes their blue and green vehicles with some distrust, making eye contact with one of their officers. He shakes his head slightly and gestures for her to move on with the tip of his plasma rifle. _Nothing to see here,_ he seems to say. _Don't make me hurt you._

She heeds the unspoken warning and turns right, staying below the speed limit until she is out of sight, keeping an eye on the navpoint on the inside of her goggles. She doesn't want to hit any checkpoints. Even though all her papers are in order for this district, the delay would make her late for work, and she hates being late.

She pulls into another road, glancing briefly at the towering wall to her left, running along the street and guarded by watch towers and barbed wire. The edge of the district. Even here, in a place commanded by GPol, there are advertisements for military recruitment. _‘Wanna see the stars?’_ One reads, displaying a huge naked blonde woman with tits that are too big and a waist that's too thin, clutching a bottle of Vision. It reminds Fareeha startlingly of Angela. _‘Join the United Military, stranger, and you might meet me.’_ The advertisement winks one shockingly blue eye at her, and takes a sip. Then it resets.

 _You don't fool me,_ Fareeha thinks resentfully. _The next sorry soul that passes will have a different woman. Or man. Or both._

The next ad features one of the enemy, hanging limply from a rope, a heroic looking someone with Fareeha’s face standing in front of it sporting a huge gun. The ‘this could be you’ is implied, but Fareeha turns away from it, driving up the road and ignoring the flashing advertisements. She wants no part of that war. Or any war. Not when she sees the casualties every day, missing parts of themselves that shouldn't be lost. No face scanning advertisement is going to change her mind. The Falidae, huge cat-like aliens from the far side of the galaxy, are fierce and dangerous enemies, to be both respected and feared. But that doesn't stop The U.M. parading their war criminals about and executing them live on holo.

She is about to turn into another alley when something stops her. She breaks hard, skidding to a halt, twisting in her seat to stare behind her.

She sees nothing. Just another ad for Vision, which displays a holo copy of herself holding a glass. It flickers tiredly. She could have sworn she saw someone, standing off the side of the road.

_It's nothing. I'm imagining it._

She is about to start off again when a voice stops her.

“Fareeha…”

She turns her head again, and recoils in surprise. The advert is changing before her eyes - like fire in the dark  the likeness of a red dog mask blazes its way across her features, red writing unfurling beside its head.

_‘Fight for freedom, Fareeha Amari. The Red Dogs are waiting.’_

She bolts.

Revving her engine, she shoots off down the alley, leaning over her handlebars, hurtling away from the ad as though all the armies of Epsilon are after her. How do they know her name? More precisely, how did they know she'd be in that very spot? _Are they watching me?_ She wonders madly, taking a corner a little too sharply and nearly spinning out of control. Heart pounding in her mouth, she manages to steady herself, relief flooding her as she _finally_ sees the familiar flickering sign of _Buckaroo Tattoos._ The neon flashing cowboy riding a horse buzzes at her approach, and she steers into the drive, parking her bike behind the shop.

Panting, she pulls her goggles and scarf down her face to hang about her neck, scrubbing her face with her hands and running her fingers through her hair, trying to master herself. She is being stupid. They probably scanned her bike’s licence plate and got her name from that. She has no connections to the Red Dogs, or their Resistance, and nor does she want any.

_But what about Dad and Oskar?_

Her stomach clenches. She sighs, pushing herself off her bike and setting the alarm. Her father and his husband had gone missing a year ago, around the same time the Red Dogs had started moving in earnest, abandoning their takeovers of small mining towns and focusing on Krah. While she is used to all three of her parents going quiet for long periods of time, none had ever been silent this long. _Aside from Mum. I haven't spoken to her in five years._

Pushing the thought away, she makes her way round to the front of the shop, shouldering her way through the unlocked door, pleased to see a familiar face.

“Hey, Jess.”

The man looks up. Grizzled, looking older than his years, a man dressed exactly like a Terran Prime cowboy stands at the counter, smoking a huge cigar and looking generally fatigued. At her greeting, though, his expression brightens.

“Fareeha! Glad to see ya made it.”

She eyes his cigar. “Bit early for that, isn't it?”

He gives her a look she can't quite decipher. “Ain't been to bed yet. Surprised to see you here.”

Pulling off her scarf and goggles and slumping into a nearby chair, she peers at Jesse curiously. He is her best friend, and adopted older brother and she has known him her whole life. Still, it is a little odd to see how drawn his expression is. And even odder to see what looks like a bloodstain on his shirt.

“What happened?” She asks, lurching to her feet and striding towards him, her heart sinking down past her stomach.

He shakes his head, smoke billowing out of his nose. The scent of it reminds her of home. Thick and comforting.

“You saw the fire this mornin’?” He taps his mechanical hand on the counter, lowering his gaze when she nods.

“Heard it more like. The Red Dogs, right?”

Jesse shakes his head. “Nah. It was U.M. forces smokin’ out some dogs. Over at Marco’s.”

 _Marco’s?_ She thinks, reeling. _I was there last night!_

Jesse is still talking, however, and she pays close attention. “Whole place went up. There ain’ even a scrap left. Forty dead, fifty more wounded, including Marco hisself. Coma.” Jesse taps the brow of his hat in respect with one thick finger. “His woman got caught in the blaze. Same as his boy. Might be he’s hopin’ he don't wake up.”

Fareeha finds her seat again, her knees going weak. Forty dead? Including Marco’s wife and son? She had always liked Jamila and Tris.

A shot glass full of tequila appears in front of her. She takes it, lifting it to Jessie’s.

“May they find the Starways.” She says before knocking the amber liquid back. Jessie copies her, his brown eyes uncharacteristically sad.

They sit in silence for a moment, out of respect, then Jesse speaks. “Well. I ain’ openin’ the shop today. It’ll be too quiet anyway - people scared off the streets.”

Fareeha gives a pale laugh, and describes the traffic she’d struggled through that morning. Jessie pours more tequila.

“So, whose blood is that?” She says, indicating it with the lip of her glass. He looks down.

“Oh. Had some off-worlder doctor helpin’ me down at Marco’s. She was mighty swift. Was helpin’ me tug people outta the fire.” He picks at his shirt, his whiskers twitching. “I don’t know whose blood it is. It’s jus’ someone’s.”

He drags deeply from his cigar, dark eyes focussing on the counter. Fareeha rubs her eyebrow, and stares out into the street.


End file.
